King Arthur, in the hall of his palace in London, walked quickly up and down, thinking in great grief of the death of his queen. A group of pages stood quietly in the shadow by the door, and two or three knights gazed silently at the moody king.
Suddenly there came the sound of running footsteps; a man dashed into the hall, and threw himself at the feet of the king. It was a squire of Sir Mordred's, and he craved leave to speak. 'Say on,' said the king.
'My lord,' said the man, 'Sir Lancelot hath rescued the queen from the fire and hath slain some thirty of your knights, and he and his kin have taken the queen among them away to some hiding-place.'
King Arthur stood for a little while dumb for pure sorrow; then, turning away, he wrung his hands and cried with a voice whose sadness pierced every heart:
'Alas, that ever I bare a crown, for now is the fairest fellowship of knights that ever the world held, scattered and broken.'
'Further, my lord,' went on the man, as others came into the hall, 'Sir Lancelot hath slain the brethren of Sir Gawaine, and they are Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth.'
The king looked from the man to the knights that now surrounded him, as if that which he heard was past all belief.
'Is this truth?' he asked them, and all were moved at the sorrow on his face and in his voice.
'Yea, lord,' said they.
'Then, fair fellows,' he said, very heavily, 'I charge you that no man tell Sir Gawaine of the death of his two brothers; for I am sure that when he heareth that his loved younger brother, Sir Gareth, is slain, he will nigh go out of his mind for sorrow and anger.'